


Poetry And Magic

by penintime



Category: Practical Magic (1998)
Genre: Aunt-Niece Relationship, Gen, Magic, Misses Clause Challenge, Seasonal, Sisters, Storms, Weather Magic, folk magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:01:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8890048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penintime/pseuds/penintime
Summary: Trouble is brewing, but the aunts have excellent help.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gray Shadows (the_afterlight)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_afterlight/gifts).



White magic is poetry. Black magic is anything that works. -Victor Andersen

Aunt Frances wakes up early on a cold, crisp December morning and slides lazily out from the warmth of the bed, slipping into her robe and slippers and down the winding stairs toward the kitchen. No one else is awake. The house is quiet, its air charged with lingering dreams; foggy sheaths of energy that sink through the floorboards or through walls and lie in wait around corners; boobytraps of drunken confusion. She sees these forms as she moves around the house. Antonia’s dream is heavy and turbulent, with a grey-purple tinge around the edges. It hovers near the stairs on the second floor. Frances edges herself around it. In the first floor hallway, she encounters Jet’s: it is more of a mist; she is in some half-state, not really dreaming. As Frances walks through it, there is a slight fluttering touch on her face.

In the kitchen, the tea tray is set up and ready for its morning run. Four cups are set out along a row of tins; the regular morning blend, the Sunday morning blend with vanilla and chrysanthemum, and the green tea with brown roasted rice that Gillian loves (and which the children have always wrinkled their noses at until a couple of weeks ago when Kylie started asking for it). She fills the kettle and docks it to its pad, then wraps her robe more tightly and walks through to the conservatory.

The glass pane mists up as she leans toward it and peers out. Across the field, the Douglas firs are an inky jagged line drawn against the pearl pink sky. The sun is shy today, teasing an appearance but not yet committed. She opens the door and steps down onto the gravel towards the herb garden, path edged with still fragrant rosemary and lavender.

On a morning like this, beauty plays a little hard to get, Frances thinks. To the casual, disinterested observer, early winter days are dreary, bleak mosaics of browns and grays, nature scenes without character or plot. But look a little closer, and with practice, you will observe all manner of marvelous events. This is a shy season, she knows. It knows, wisely, that after the climax of harvest there is a need for rest and reflection in all things. Humans alone burn their candle at both ends. But, that is not the witches way, for after Samhain there is a time of restoration before Yule.

In the city, she muses, a day such as this would be just like any other day, except colder and more colorless. Living there, losing touch with the dance of the seasons is too easy. Staying aligned with the movement of the land when you are inside a bubble that has removed itself purposefully from it- that requires dedication and effort. Practice. Yet, there is always adventure to be found for those who seek it. Unbidden, her thoughts turn a shade darker. Sometimes, underneath an unassuming surface, trouble is brewing. The stillness of this particular December morning is rich, interspersed with treasures revealed only to those who know where to look - or rather, it occurs to her - who know how to look. You need eyes of fey to see certain offerings.

The snails and slugs have labored through the night, looping across the grass and patio before returning to the compost pile to plan tomorrow's performance, leaving behind a grimoire written in shimmering curly script.

She traces the words, from the stone path to the vegetable plot where prose gives way to sacred symbols; a spiral winds up and down the sun clock; a sigil is inscribed on the dial. She pauses, pondering the message left on the marble surface.

Back in the house, she fills the teapot. By the back stairs, there is a small cabinet set into the wood paneling, opening up to reveal a line of tasseled ropes. One of them has a silver tassel and she pulls on it, twice. A few minutes later Jet comes shuffling down the stairs, feet ensconced in velvet slippers. “Calm before the storm. It is going to be an angry one.” Frances tells her. Jet nods quietly, still sleepy.

There is much to do. The children are awakened. Whenever bad weather approaches, Sally has them chase the chickens into their manse and then go around the house closing and latching all windows and shutters. The aunts send them to see about these tasks now, after lining their pajama pockets with cookies. Today the chickens are all accounted for and already in voluntary seclusion inside their coop, and the girls return quickly from the garden. As Kylie and Antonia run from room to room checking windows, Jet can hear them giggling and whispering, eager. She smiles to herself but then a shiver crawls down her spine. On the edge of her hearing, there is a faint whistling that lends an ominous touch to the deep silence that surrounds the house. Frances pokes her head in the kitchen on her way down the cellar stairs and gives her sister a look that says she can hear it too.

From the depths of the basement, an old trunk is brought up. Inside, wrapped in a square of coarse linen, is an axe, three oak brooms, carved out of wood harvested from a tree that was struck by lightning, a tangle of string dotted with intricate knots, and a thin gold coin. Frances places the coin under a loose step on the stairs, whilst Jet dashes around the conservatory gathering lady’s mantle, a spring of mistletoe, rowan and geranium leaves, and powdered broom heather.

It is almost mid morning when they all assemble in the kitchen. It should be getting lighter outside but instead, the island is bathed in a peculiar rose-colored twilight. Kylies cheeks are ruddy from rushing up and down the stairs, the aunts are somewhat agitated, their hair loose and wild. Antonia seems calm and collected but the aunts can’t help but notice that her aura is clouded, muted colors swirling. Beeswax candles are lit and placed around the kitchen. A round-bellied teapot is filled with steaming heather and geranium tea. “Girls,” aunt Jet whispers, “we are going to need your help protecting the house.” 

Just as the heavy silence slips back into the sea like a landslide, and a deafening roar comes rolling to fill the void it left behind, a small procession comes marching across the hill. Three tall figures, and a smaller one lagging slightly behind. They line up near the edge of the garden, where it overlooks the rocky shore. They wait there, skirts flapping and hair whipping violently in the wind that is gathering strength quickly now. They can see the heart of the storm that is coming, its core of violent intent clearly visible against the thickening air. In order to unleash its destruction upon the rest of the island, it must first breach this hill, where the manse sits as a watchtower against its raging fists of salt, water, and wind. “Here it comes!” Frances calls out as the storm suddenly surges, firing the first shot, as it were. Jet raises her arms, ax in hand. Antonia and Frances raise their brooms, and between them, Kylie follows suit. As they begin to wave their brooms anti-clockwise in large sweeps against the direction of the wind, Jet lunges forward; breaking into a run toward the very edge of the garden, where the rocks become cliffs. She breathes in little bursts of fume that hover for a split second before dispersing. Right at the property line, she meets the storm and, bringing the ax down with all her might, she cleaves it.

Afterward, they sit at the kitchen table sipping hot chocolate, still buzzing with the exhilaration of the storm and cold and the spell. They light more candles, spread honey on toast and wrap up in shawls and blankets. The wind shakes the windows in their frames and makes the gutters rattle, but it is just a winter storm now, the kind that at most will blow lawn chairs across driveways, fill cellars with salt water and uproot a couple of trees. Nothing like the storm they could have had.

When the wind climaxes, howling outside and making the large house rock ever so slightly, Jet lowers her voice and turns to the girls. She warns them that they must never, ever shout into the wind because it can decide to turn you inside out. Frances nods solemnly and adds that it is best to keep one's pets inside on a stormy night, as an ill wind will skin a cat alive. The aunts tell stories about the elementals, tales that make Kylie's arms go prickly with goose bumps and she almost wishes her mama was there, and though Antonia smiles her eyes go wide - and these are girls who have seen more than most children ever will. But then the aunts laugh and dig up brownies from within the cavernous pantry, and the candles seem to burn brighter and more golden than ever. There is more tea, and Frances sighs and says that real life requires real weather, not sunshine all year round. At this, Kylie puts her tea cup down in surprise. “Then what about aunt Gilly? She says every day is sunny in California and she seems happy there!”. Aunt Frances snorts, but Jet just smiles and says, ”Your aunt Gilly makes her own weather, dear.”


End file.
